The Return
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: [Warning: Old fic] When Morris Fletcher approaches an old ally of the Gunmen to inform her that they're still alive, her entire universe is turned on its head.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Many moons ago this story was started...many moons passed before it was continued. Even _more_ moons passed before it was deleted and now, it is reposted for posterity and because the Lone Gunmen don't get enough attention anymore.

Told from the viewpoint of an original character, you _have_ been warned.

-

The sky over Arlington Cemetery was gray. Not the typical blue gray color it takes on when rain clouds form, the blue gray that many people actually find quite pretty, but the most dismal, ordinary and depressing gray anyone could possibly imagine. This was the color that turned poets melancholy, that turned artists miserable, and that made the boring corporate world go round. Gray like the sidewalk cement, something akin to the color of cigarette smoke. A flat, lifeless shade that seemed to weigh down heavily upon everything, taking all the joy out of the world. The dullest color known to mankind.

Even the grass I was kneeling in had a grayish cast to it, further draining the color from this somber place. The stark white of the headstones surrounding me was the only relief to be found from the drabness that seemed to come from all sides, engulfing me, enclosing me and making me feel boxed in. Of course, that isn't really what was making me feel so wretched, no, that honor was given to the three simple grave markers that stood in front of me, dutifully informing the world that here lay John Byers, Melvin Frohike and Richard Langly. Friends, brothers, sons. Three heroes whom the world at large knew nothing about.

I _Heroes, he would laugh to hear me now. /_I 

There was a thunderclap in the distance, shattering the silence of the graveyard as the whole area seemed to vibrate with the power of the boom, and I shivered at the sudden sound. Not only did it startle me terribly, but I had been kneeling here, in the rain for at least an hour, weeping. I was cold and very, very wet. Not that it mattered really, my emotions were in such turmoil I was barely even aware of my physical condition, numb to the world that lay outside my own head.

A fresh wave of tears flooded my eyes, but I willed them away. The rain had mercifully stopped a short time ago, and my tears had ebbed soon after, I wasn't about to start again. If I did, I may never have been able to stop.

Kneeling there, in the mud, my clothes soaked through, I thought about the utter ridiculousness of the situation. The date of death on those headstones was five years ago, but to me, the grief was fresh. I had spent the past six years on the run from the government, with no ties to anyone or anything. I had no way of knowing they were gone, God, I hadn't even been near a computer to check my e-mail in over four years, it was too risky after they almost caught me the last time. How was I to have known?

What was even more ludicrous was the wad of papers that was folded and shoved unceremoniously into my jacket pocket. In addition to the notification of their will reading (an event that had taken place on May fifteenth, two thousand two) there were also several sheets of paper from my personal files that detailed all the information I could gather on those who were responsible, either directly, or indirectly for the death of The Lone Gunmen.

When I had finally arrived home, on top of the fact I found my apartment in shambles, there was a stack of old mail on my kitchen table, every scrap of which had been torn open and read by persons unknown. On the very top of the pile was the letter that marked the first time I had heard of the death of my friends. What a way to find out. A cold sterile sheet of paper from some law firm informing me that my presence was requested at the will reading that had taken place a good five years before.

I must have sat there staring at that damn sheet of paper for at least an hour, completely numb to the world around me. It had started out as such a good day...my name was finally cleared this morning, I was able to come home

The first thing I had done after I had recovered from the initial shock of the whole thing, was to get to the nearest cyber ca

The reality hadn't really sunk in yet, I suppose. In my line of work you grew to believe you were prepared for this sort of thing. Friends and allies were always disappearing, or dying, it was just part of the job. Spies, investigative journalists, hackers, and law enforcement agents all had notoriously short life spans, it was just one of those inescapable facts. People occupying those professions made up the biggest percentage of deaths every year. Not the cancer patients, not those with heart attacks, normal, everyday healthy people who simply had I _unhealthy_ /i jobs. We were all just statistics in the long run, numbers and not people.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Oh wow...almost a year between updates. A personal record of procrastination. (Meanwhile, there's a small part of my brain insisting that this is NOT something to be proud of...). In my defense...

Uh...I got sucked into another fandom against my will? -sheepish- No? How about...uh...I realized that this story was narrated by a thinly veiled Mary-Sue and that most of the plot I had in mind for _this_ has been poured into a Stargate/Lone Gunmen crossover?

Oh yeah, _that_ you believe.

Well...either way, pickin' up where I left off _now_...mostly because I'm procrastinating on updating everything _else_ that's in progress. My mind works in such strange ways...

--

The man beneath my boot smirked at me, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

I remained stationary, staring down the barrel of my gun at him menacingly, "Yeah well, your rep precedes you."

"Afraid I can't say the same." He motioned at the boot held firmly on his throat lazily, "If you would be so kind?"

"I don't think so, pal," I replied, keeping my aim directly between his eyes, "Before you even _think_ about moving, I want to know why you're here."

"Then you'll let me up?"

"No, _then_ I'll shoot you." I allowed myself the tiniest of sneers, "See, I _had_ planned on looking for you, but you've saved me the trouble of hunting you down to kill you. Thanks for that."

"Somehow I doubt 'You're welcome' is an appropriate reply in this situation," he answered impatiently, "Put that gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot."

**BANG!**

The smoking hole in the ground a hair's breadth to the left of Fletcher's head seemed to go a long way towards silencing him. "You were saying?"

For a moment, anyway…

He tsked at me, "Desecrating the gravesites of America's fallen heroes…shame, shame."

I started getting irritated, "Do you have a death wish?"

"I have a few misgivings about your desire to murder me being as genuine as you would have me believe." The smirk on his smarmy face widened, "Especially considering the information I've got that you'd find oh-so-very interesting concerning your…_friends_."

"The Gunmen, you mean…I already know the story, chum. I also know _you_ had a hand in their untimely downfall. Hence why I'm so spirited when it comes to the subject of _your_ demise…and my _direct_ involvement with it."

Fletcher chuckled, "Revenge is a dish best served cold…" He leered at my soaked shirt, "Which is a requirement you seem to be meeting _quite_ admirably."

I squeezed off another shot, this one to the right of the incurable letch's head.

"You're trying my patience. If you've got anything of worth to say--which I _doubt_--get it over with."

"So you can shoot me? I think not, girlie. I'm a veteran at the whole betrayal song and dance. I've got information…you obviously want to know what it is, otherwise you'd have killed me by now…way I see it, we should make a deal."

I considered for a moment, studying that simpering mug intently for any signs of deception before I made my decision.

"Fine. You tell me, and I _won't_ shoot you in the head. You've got my solemn oath."

Removing my boot from his neck, I took two measured steps backward as he clumsily got to his feet and grabbed his lapels, giving his jacket a swift straightening. He tugged at his tie and smoothed his rumpled collar, "Well…now that we can talk like civilized _adults_…"

"Cut the small talk, Fletcher. If you've got any valid info, spill it before I change my mind about my solemn oath."

He snickered, "Please…I know your type. You're like _them._" He gestured at the three headstones, "You make a promise, you keep it…all part of your self imposed code of ethics."

The man had a point…

"But, in the interests of keeping the peace," he looked at me seriously, "Your three stooges aren't _dead_."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?"

"It's the truth."

"Uh huh…sure. Yeah. Right. A dealer in deception like _you_ has decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to let me know that these three men--three men who I know for a _fact_ are dead and buried--_aren't_?" I holstered my gun as I scoffed, " Next you'll have a bridge you want to sell me. I don't know what possessed me to think you had any _useful_ information."

"Someone like you should know that not everything is black and white when it comes to things like this…faking a death is exceedingly simple. It's not like faking _three_ is much harder."

"Someone like _me_? Buddy, you don't even _know_ me. As for the faking of deaths…even if I were to consider that as a possibility--which I'm _not_--it's been _five years_. The Gunmen would have resurfaced by now in some capacity."

Fletcher looked at me as though I was being thickheaded "Ah, but you're thinking that _they_ faked their own deaths."

"Oh and I suppose someone _else_ did? Come _on_. To what end?"

"Think about it…having three of the world's most valuable hackers--men who have extensive knowledge of the X-Files _and_ marketable skills--at your disposal is _quite_ the incentive."

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously and he reacted accordingly.

Fletcher put his hands up in defeat, "Hey, believe me, don't. Doesn't really make any difference to _me_…just figured you'd want to know."

He turned then, as if to leave, and though every instinct I had was _screaming_ at me to let him go, my curiosity was piqued to the point that I couldn't ignore it.

"Hold on a second, Fletcher."

He twisted his head to one side just far enough so that he could look at me over his shoulder, "Yes?"

**BANG!**

He swore colorfully as he went down and I advanced on his fallen form.

"Bitch! You--you bitch! You--you said--"

"I never said anything about shooting you in the knee." I crouched down to stare at him, "And I can't have you in good shape if this is all a ruse, now can I? Last thing I need is you deciding to run out on me at a crucial moment and leave me holdin' the bag. Without a kneecap, you're a _lot_ less likely to make any daring escape attempts."

I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up off the ground with some difficulty, "See, Criminal Survival Tactics 101...a wounded hostage is _always_ better than a healthy one."


End file.
